Left Behind
by Late to the Party
Summary: AU Novelisation of Baldur's Gate. Part 1 of 3. Taken out of Candlekeep by Gorion, Imoen and [Charname] are parted, leaving [Charname] to fend for himself. As bitterness ensues, he taps into his latent power, and scours the Sword Coast for those willing to serve. If Beregost won't have him, perhaps the demi-humans will. A rare first-person piece, written back in September 2011.
1. Left Behind, part 1

Left Behind

They left. That day, he took her, my 'sister', the thief. The skull in my vision was right. He chose _her_ over me.

I watched them go; watched from the rooftops unseen, as they slipped away, alone in the night. Neither looked back.

When I stole back inside, his door was locked. I waited for dawn.

There was no farewell, no warning.

The gate guard, Hull, found me. Knife to my throat, he led me, pushed me from the walls. 'For witching his wife'; I saw murder in his eyes. The rocks below were to be my death; the sea caught my fall. Few would miss me.

Before the sun lit the sky, darkness swallowed me.

I washed up on _their_ shore; the sirines. They welcomed me as a slave; they could not know what I am, I, who slip between dreams. Their queen I met in thought, her song holding my waking self. I awoke to chains; chains unseen, the fog upon my mind, the dreamlike state. She became mine. She, and her tribe.

There are other slaves, sailors taken from the seas; captured in storms, in raids, lured by the song, their ships broken by wreckers south of here. They too, are mine.

This is where it begins. From here, shall I expand; all shall know my name, the Son of Murder.

The world of man shall pay for what they did, for their gods, for my birth. Today the reign of terror hails from my hand. Those like me shall perish; the skull tells them the same lies. Who they are I know not, but they are out there. For my mother's people, for vengeance. For victory. Only I shall remain.

They shall call _me_ the Prince of Murder.


	2. Left Behind, part 2

I do not know the day; the sirines have no concept of such things. The slaves are dazed, as if in slumber. Their minds dream. How long was I held by their song? How many suns have come and gone since the Fall? It matters not. Since I overcame their queen, one sun has passed the waves; here it begins anew.

Everything goes well. The sirines' care naught for gold, nor cloth, but jewels and baubles? The likes of which I have never seen. Chests overflowing, pearls as large as my eye. They will finance what is to come.

The slaves prove useful. The old lighthouse is the first objective; it must fall. The brigands there hinder my reach; their wrecking will draw the wrath of the cities' sooner or later. I cannot risk discovery. With the night, we strike. They are ignorance to my presence; it will be their downfall.

Four sirines have I taken as my own; I need not fight them. They see me, they understand. Their queen does not; her daughter will make her see, or take her place.

Amongst the slaves is a mage; he will be of use. There are less than I had hoped, but it is a start. If I lose half of them to take the lighthouse, it will a victory. These twelve can be replaced easily enough. The brigands shall more than make up for the fallen.

A storm approaches; perhaps there will be rich pickings? The shipping lanes will aid me greatly in the coming days. When the wreckers lure the hapless onto the rocks, we shall be waiting. They will not expect this.


	3. Left Behind, part 3

The raid went well. Better than I could have imagined. Eight slaves were lost; easily replaced. The wreckers are mine. Hardened, ruthless, mindless; clay in my hands. They could not resist the sirines' song; now they dream of me.

Their leader was planning a raid on the cove; he would have failed, but our losses would have been high. In one strike, months of strife has ended; the sirine queen knows this. She is compliant. For now.

The wreckers' have far less than I hoped for; vagrants without vision, they pawn off pitiful cargos to a contact in Beregost. A dwarf; 'Kagain', a caravan runner. He may prove useful, in time.

Still, the brigands are armed; not well, but enough.

There is a fortress south of here, infested by gnolls. Crude, but remote. It could serve as a base; to gather, equip, train others. It is not beyond my grasp, but even with the sirines, I lack the numbers needed.

The slaves tell me there is a village nearby, high in the hills. They say a xvart shaman inhabits it, that many of his kin dwell there. If my numbers are to grow, I need arable land.

The storm gave up her riches; a dwarven smith was amongst the survivors. The sirines took him, and three others. Why the sea spared him, I don't know, but I will not argue with such good fortune. His mind fell easily, and I shall put him to work in the village. But a smith needs ore; I have heard the rumours, the slaves confirm it: the ore here is rotten. Many leave to find work elsewhere. I must investigate this more closely.


	4. Left Behind, part 4

Debris from the storm litters the beach. No fishermen comb the waves; the shoals are treacherous, rough. I have set the slaves to salvage the wreck; she is caught on the rocks. I had thought she went down, but fortune shines her favour once again. We must make haste; the gaping hole in her side will see the seas pound her against the rocks she rests upon. I have set the mage to work. If I can recover her, I will assault the fortress by sea.


	5. Left Behind, part 5

Another day, and I have little to show for it. The slaves toil from dawn until dusk, tireless in their desire to please me. Soon, I shall release the sirines' hold on some; those taken in the cove may be ready to follow me freely. Their dreams inspired will become reality for them. A hold stronger than any song.

There is a setback with the ship; she is not the craft I thought she was. One mast and a spar, she is rudderless, and her main is splintered; the winds uprooted it and the deck is breached. There are no shipwrights among the slaves; the sailors have patched her, but can do little more. The wreckers will ease her off the rocks come high tide; we will see how well she floats.


	6. Left Behind, part 6

Through whatever sense is left in their fogged minds, the sailors tell me the keel is intact. Without a drydock to repair her, the ship is all but worthless, but sufficient for our needs. It took all night, but we have moored her safely. Extensive repairs are needed, but she is afloat. It will take more than what I have; I have dispatched two sirines to scout the Xvart village. I expect them to return in three days.


	7. Left Behind, part 7

I miscalculated; the sirines' need for water is greater than I had expected. Water is scarcer inland; brackish pools and springs taper off. Yet fortune was once again on our side; the rains fell, and much was harvested. I will begin construction of a water-tower as soon as the assault is complete. The mage, though exhausted, may be able to conjure some container; spells are too dangerous. Should the Shaman detect them, our surprise is lost; far from the roads as we are, the closer we strike, the more others may sense the trace of magical lingering. No, I must find another way.

It seems the legends are true; I had thought them merely myth: the sirines' blend with their surroundings, veiled from the eye. This tribe have learned to use simple arrows of horn, their head tipped with shell. They dip the sharpened point into a deadly sea toxin, found only underwater. Their foes are paralysed, then trapped by their song. Had I known this earlier, we could have advanced sooner.

Another day and the scouts will return. I will set the brigands to preparation; the oldest, a wily salt-bitten smuggler, is a thief-catcher turned rogue. I will hold him back; it is time my sirines learned to track on land as well as sea.


	8. Left Behind, part 8

My sirines have returned; the xvarts suspect nothing. The wreckers' boast of a isolated village is confirmed; as I suspected, they possess arable land. The forest between the cove and hill will prove excellent cover. I have given orders to pack up. A skeleton crew shall remain to guard the cove, the ship and the sirines' birthing pools. I must not risk my sirines needlessly but this is too great an opportunity to miss; the xvarts are planting. We strike with the dusk, when they are wearied; first, we must ensure our march is concealed.

The mage failed me; through his fogged thoughts, no reference or mention of containers, only magical bags – it seems we must use stoppered shells, sealed with hide. Other shells will serve as war horns in future but for now, silence is our best weapon.

I must think of a plan of attack. The brigands, except for the thief-taker, shall be our distraction; hidden, the sirines shall move into place, and sing their song. Those with bows shall cripple the shaman; yet, he may have powers preventing this, and pierce the sirines' veil. I will coat all blades in the toxin, and have my sirines carry knives.


	9. Left Behind, part 9

Metal is not to their tastes, I have discovered. My four – _my_ four – refuse; instead, they have fashioned blades of shell for themselves, as long as a man's forearm. So be it. They sing me to sleep, dancing within my thoughts at night; in the grey haze, they walk with me. I begin to see them as individuals, with their own quirks and personalities; the queen's daughter, the princess, she is headstrong. She wears a coral crown and pearls in her hair; hers is the colour of seaweed. Another wears shell, green and blue; her sister prefers sea flowers, hers tinged a warm purple. Once they all looked the same; now, I see the slight differences.

Their queen may still resist. 'Sil', I have learned her name is. She fears me.

They have given me a knife; the shell is beautiful, but what need have I for such a blade? Nevertheless, I have accepted; my four are pleased. I can feel it; through slight alterations in their skin's hue, I am learning to read their reactions. They will take me to their birthing pool soon, I think. Only the strongest male is chosen; the slaves are tough, more so than I, but should I seed the tribe's young? Sil will never allow it.

The mocking skull warns me against such a course. It tells me murder is bred into my bones. A sacrifice is demanded.


	10. Left Behind, part 10

The brigands are surprisingly resilient; we have made good time on the march. Sil remains at home, with the older ones; they will guard the nest. I anticipate a rebellion; I will use her daughter to seize control of the tribe. I will enslave Sil's supporters, and breed a new generation. It will be the mage I've decided; his daughters will possess stronger magic, but it is my four whom I shall save. I need them to maintain their grip over the tribe.

The forest is dense; it is not as slow going as I believed. The thief-taker can see paths through the brush; the sirines' know their coast. We are few, but enough. My four and two others; eight brigands, and the cove slaves, minus the dwarf. Food will be a problem if we fail the decisive blow; we bring the last of the lighthouse reserves, and the cove's store. Sirines do not stockpile much in this, or any season; the sea is always bountiful. This must change if I am to push further inland.

It will be dusk soon; we are closing in on the outskirts. Tonight, we strike.


	11. Left Behind, part 11

We took many xvarts, more than half their number now slumber under the sirines' song. We lost one; the shaman called upon his village's protector: a mighty bear. It dwelt in a cave shrine; the xvarts fed it gifts of meat. The beast they worship failed them; before we broke the shaman's hold, it tore through most of the cove-slaves and three of the brigands. Its hide protected it from many of the arrows. Finally, we pierced it, and now it, like the shaman, is mine. I entered its dreams, and ripped asunder its mind's layers. It knows no master but me. Fury made it powerful, powerful enough to silence the sirines' song. I will not forget this lesson.

The shaman serves me now; he knows what I am capable of, what it means for his people to defy me. I have spared their 'god'; in place of its throne, I now stand. They bow before me, as does their beast. It will be a valuable asset in securing the Fortress.

They offer me a sacrifice; their females, their young. Their warriors. Whatever it takes to spare them; they understand that I want them all; they are a _living_ sacrifice, mine. No xvart maidens shall grace my bed; but the shaman's daughter I will keep at my side.


	12. Left Behind, part 12

Sil has chosen not to rebel. Two sirines remain in the village; fifteen of their warriors accompany me. I have sent the dwarf and another sirine to relieve the last of my four. The three brigands and two cove-slaves will man the ship. The bear I have brought; perhaps I shall have shell plates fashioned for its front, spikes dipped in toxin.

I am tired, tired beyond imagining. The demands of dreamwalking so much leave me yearning for release; I cannot afford it. Soon, I can disband the sirines' song; I do not know how many they can hold. I can allow no show of weakness, lest they turn on me. Sil will be watching, waiting. Her daughter watches also; she thinks herself mine, but I am hers?


	13. Left Behind, part 13

The xvarts have already cut a fresh mast; with their crude picks, they clear branches from the trunk. Using pegs they split the wood; incredible. That such primitives could develop a society without mortar or nails… perhaps I underestimate their ingenuity. Still, they cannot build boats. We lack the means and location for a dock. Tools will take time to forge; I have set the sirines to scouring the seabed. Perhaps the graveyard of wrecks will yield what's needed. If not, we shall set upon ships, but I must be careful, lest I incur the wrath of the cities of Baldur's Gate and Athkatla to the south. Storms account only for so much, treacherous shoals and currents a little more.

Tomorrow promises cloud, and more rain. Will the sun shine in time to feed the crops? If the harvest is ruined before its begun, everything will be setback. It is time the thief-taker joined the xvart trackers, and game caught. Stores must readied; I will begin salt harvesting. Work will begin on the water-tower soon. In the meantime, I shall set the xvart-women to gather and braid vines; much is needed for the climb.


	14. Left Behind, part 14

I cannot sleep. There is too much in my mind. The mocking skull watches me; I feel its silent gaze. I cannot shroud the vision, cannot escape it. I feel something stir in my blood; a warning, perhaps. A danger? I suspect Sil is preparing for something; it will be birthing season soon. The mating from last year will produce fruit. Is that when she'll strike? She will want her young protected.

My four come to me, comfort me. Amidst the fog, slowing turning red, their presence soothes away my fears. How much do they know? How much do they care? I sense they feel my doubt; each comes in turn to wash it away, sometimes they come together, like the sea breaking gently over the shore. They believe in me. When did I become theirs?

How much time has passed? How long before the ship is readied, the assault takes place? I must send out scouts; the sirines will swim the coast. The seas are rough; calmer skies would be to our advantage. Once again, I am forced to conclude the night is our best time. We will scale the rocks around the sea; a frontal assault is suicide. Like the village, the fortress will not foresee us.

The xvarts prove capable beyond expectation; I have taken the best of their warriors. They prepare day and night, fearless, armed with the paralysing toxin, they may be unstoppable.

The slave-mage continues to scour the wrecks; he has recovered precious little of worth. Much, much more is down there. Only the sea knows what awaits to be discovered. I do not believe his efforts are squandered, despite the lack of results.

I anticipate three more days for repairs; we have salvaged some of the sail, but oars must power the ship. All haste must be made; if the shaman is right, another storm is heading this way. The winds herald maelstroms; I want the fort taken by then. The cove, though hidden, is exposed; the xvarts claim bandits are pushing further and further away from the roads. We are but a few days from my old home; we cannot repel a well-armed force.

When I possess the gnolls' might, everything will change.


	15. Left Behind, part 15

The skull visited me again last night, taunting with words, images. The future? The past? A possible future? The present? It thinks I should not have done this; it promises power. Empty promises, empty threats. The power to slip between dreams is mine alone, my mother's. The sirines are afraid; afraid of what I see. In my dreams, they fear me, but cannot deny me. My four, they understand; they are transformed, my handmaidens. In this dream, they are no longer blue skinned, but sheathed in red; they wear masks, the skulls of future fallen. My foes. They stand upon a mound of skulls, at four corners; in the centre lies my throne. I sit upon it, my own face shrouded by a skull; I see empty, hollow eyes. Without sound, it laughs at me. Around the throne bodies… thousands upon thousands of bodies, human, lie. Further out, more bodies; of beasts, of elves, gnomes, dwarves…

Is this what it means to be the Prince of Murder?

I rebuke the skull; it's promises are not truth. It claims I cannot deny what I am; I claim I will dictate the future. My destiny is my own; it laughs at me. I will learn, it vows. Yes, and it will learn that _I_ will see _it_ crushed beneath _my_ feet; I shall _not_ become it, this visage, this abomination. The face I wear is my own; I am no one's mask. Remain dead, skull.


	16. Left Behind, part 16

The xvart shaman will call the bears of the forest; from the east, he will attack. Three sirines will go with him; eight will come with me. We shall sail down the channel dividing the isle the fort occupies from the mainland, and while we scale the northern rocks, the feint will draw away the bulk of the host. I anticipate losses, but the shaman is commanded to hide himself away; the gnolls shall face an invisible foe. The true force shall reveal itself too late for reprisal.

Should it fail, I must consider another mark.

Three sirines guard the xvart village; no bandits have penetrated its hills thus far. They should be sufficient to deal with any… stray foes. Sil remains a concern, but I trust she and hers will protect the birthing pools at the cove. No, the true test will be sailing up the isle's channel. The gnolls will notice any ship not sailing around the shore. The rocky crags and peaks of the Cloudpeak Mountains will hide us, but finding a place to moor? That will be a greater challenge.

I have doubts about this plan. Yet, I'll need the gnolls if I am to succeed; I need a secure place from which to launch deeper assaults. If I can get my sirines into range, the gnoll chieftain will fall. Should he, like the xvarts, have a shaman, and perhaps apprentices, everything hangs on speed, and stealth. The rewards are many; the cost of failure is high. With a contingent of armoured gnolls, under my guidance, I would own the lands around the isle. Far from the roads, I could fortify my bastion, this seat of power. If.

One problem at a time.

Tomorrow begins the countdown; upon the tenth day, we advance.


	17. Left Behind, part 17

The crags and cliff gullies were sharper and steeper than I could have dreamt. So fast does the water flow, that a man would be swept downstream and drown before the knowledge of his death reached him. The rapids are perilous; I have lost two xvarts already. Even with the sirines' affinity to the waves, this is something else. I wonder if I should turn back, before I lose everything.

We have come too far to retreat now; we must press on.

The winds batter us; we hear its terrible howl. Sheer sides tower over us, so tall as to make us mere insects before Frost Giants. Do Frost Giants inhabit these peaks? I could well imagine it. Still, we have found a shallow cove, hidden under a rock ledge. The beach is arced, shallow enough for our ship. We should have lost the rudder a dozen times, but somehow, we survived. Lashing it steady was not enough; three of the wreckers sold their might to its continued existence. Only the bear's strength braced the tiller. The sirines' song did not win that battle; the ship should have been dashed to pieces.

We must find a path, and if we cannot anchor the ship, we scuttle it.

Of the fifteen warrior xvarts, eleven remain. The shaman has shown his worth; the path is treacherous, climbing, and our braided vines are not enough. I ordered him to save his spells; magic will not aid us here. He claims he can call roots; the risk is too great. He can hear the wind before it rises; feel the rock for faults. Where it's weak, where it's strong; he has guided us up the ever ascending 'stairway'; the natural road.

It has taken us far longer than I had hoped. We are almost out of supplies; my sirines are wilting. The bear, we have had to hoist; upon ledges we rest, too weary to wake, too afraid of the fall. It is bitterly cold, then scathingly hot. All our water is gone. Somehow, we push on. Another day, half a day. Without the sirines' song, we would be lost. Twice now, we have almost lost Bear. The fire-hardened stake has slipped, but not fallen; its strength is in the cogs, the pulleys.

I do not know how much longer we can go on. The rains will fall soon; we must.

I begin to believe this is madness.


	18. Left Behind, part 18

The path has levelled out; we have climbed steadily, at an angle, the slope gentle against the sheer face. We are exhausted; we lost a brigand. Ten xvarts and the shaman remain. Bear is still with us. My sirines are still here. Somehow, they have held on, climbing as though born to it. They are beings of the sea; yet my four say they are used to navigating the undercurrents and their rocks. They swim against the tide daily, hunting and scouring the sands for prey and treasure. It took them some hours, but now, not even the xvarts can match them.

Against all odds, we have reached the fortress' lands. Now the real challenge begins.


	19. Left Behind, part 19

Night has fallen; we are once again without food, but we have salvaged water from the trees and bushes. It is an inhospitable region, where seemingly nothing grows. The soil is thin, and the few trees besides the crags are withered; further in, the forests fill out. Grassy plains are across the gorge, with further forest and hills. South, we see the Cloudpeaks; north, flatter land, and following the channel, the sea.

I cannot believe we have made it this far. Their strength surpasses mine; in their minds, I still walk, my image a fiction. I am not this great leader for whom they would die; who has fused them into one force. Despite my inner doubts, they see me as such. The sirines' song echo throughout their thoughts and mine; it is all that keeps me holding on.

Above, the clouds are white; wisps that join nimbuses, puffy then slate grey. The skies are darkening and time is running out. We must find shelter; having fled from the cliffs, we must now seek a cave. The irony is not lost on me. Without shelter, we are doomed; we must flee the ravine's edge, or be swept back down. That the very water we so desperately need threatens us has not missed my thoughts either; the sirines do not understand the absurdity. They cannot appreciate the contradiction; it is simply nature.

Perhaps I have gone mad.


	20. Left Behind, part 20

It has happened; the rains have fallen. Within a copse we huddle, once so desperate for rain, we now battle against its chill. So cruelly burnt by the sun, we now stiffen. Our weapons turn to rust; only the sirines' shells are untouched. Bear is grouchy; I can feel him against me, his deep breathing. I lay my head against his side, knowing that he could rip it off with a single swipe; his breath is foul, but he is mine. Somehow, I have become his.


	21. Left Behind, part 21

Fog finds us encamped on a ridge; we are within sight of the fortress. Scavenged berries, meats and nuts have left our bellies half filled; we dare not eat more for fear of sickness. Between the breaks in the banking cloud, the rays of blinding sunlight, we advance.

It is both terrifying and exhilarating; to think that this will soon be mine. A… home to call my own. The stench revealed its position long before our sight did; offal rises in waves. The severed heads and bodies of mutilated prey hang from and around the wall. The wall itself is in disrepair; wooden stakes have plugged the gaps, and skewered on spikes, I see the heads of humans and gnolls alike. It seems they kill their own.

Upon closer inspection, I realise just how large a gnoll is; it's doglike face, the fanged muzzle; its ears, laid back, the mane spotted, like the hyena from the tomes. There are patrols; they walk like chickens, or horses, the hind leg clad in an all too human boot. Their breastplates are leather; some are studded, ringed, and some few wear plate. Mostly, it is piecemeal armour, haphazardly sewn together. Pauldrons too small have been hammered out of shape on one; girdles strung together to form a belt. These are the _beasts_ I desire for my name?

They are legion. I see their campfires through the gloom, so many, like a hundred flickering stars. It seems apt, given the fog, to compare this place to night. There is a darkness here, a carnage. No, I am the Son of Murder; I, not they. I have seen battle – skirmishes… raids. This… this is too horrible to comprehend; the stench. I can't–

Through the breaking fog, I see the main gate. My breath escapes me, as my eyes bear witness to this sight, this absurdity – this _abomination_. Across the narrow bridge, a tall warrior charges; his sword cleaves the air, catching the light, his tattoos a faded purple-blue. Incredibly, I see an orange rat on his shoulder; behind him, two shorter figures stand. Their build is slight compared to the muscled giant; they wield curved blades, donning exotic armour. They are not fair, but tanned olive; tanned beyond weathered. Even from here–

That voice. That voice behind them. Magic unleashed from fingertips I cannot see; pink missiles – no, _no_. It can't be – the host, they'll wake the host; with the dawn, they charge. They charge the main gate? _The main gate_?! All I see is armour and flesh; the giant wears none, but screams a bloody battle cry.

The gnolls respond; I watch as they rally, wakening. Up through the gate they charge, carving a path; no – _why_?! _Why?!_ They overcome the steps leading to the fortress; up and up, five gnolls on the giant at a time. He never falters, never – the two at his back cut down those he misses.

And her. From out of the fog. Her.

I can't watch any more.

It – _damn you._


	22. A Place to Call Home, part 1

A Place to Call Home

Memories. Memories of home. Of… Candlekeep. Of her, my _sister_. The thief. The attention-hog. The cheery one everyone loved. The thief who picked pockets, stole hearts, and always avoided responsibility. Chores, studies – none of it mattered to her. 'Carefree', some called her; 'irresponsible', said others. Her eyes danced; her laughter echoed through the dry, book filled halls; they said she was a 'lively one'. What they meant was 'she brought life'.

She didn't know what she was. That she was my _sister_. That she, like I, was born of Murder. The darkness that inhabits her soul; the killer that infests her blood. She is an abomination, just as I am.

She… why did he choose her? Why did she leave me like that? Why couldn't she have said farewell? I, who study, who walk in dreams, who spend the quiet hours in reflection, thinking upon the wisdom of this world; the meaning of _why_ the realms exist, how they work. I who attend my tutors, my studies; who instead, was passed over for _her_?

My tutors. Few fond words; never enough. Praise, so scarce, yet a smile for _her_ antics. Blame after blame she heaped on _me_ ; I, who cared as little for chores as she. My books she would hide, then gleefully return; I refused her bait, and she laughed.

She abandoned me.

Does she know? Does she know what she is? Does the skull yet talk to her?

What will she do, I wonder, when she learns. When she learns the truth, as I have, will she break? Will she deny her own father?

…Where is he? Why was he not with her? Who are those she travelled with? Who was the robed woman the giant carried out?

Why can I not forget all this? The sights, the sounds, the smells; the dust, the muted light, the hallways… the ignorant, those who claimed I – I did nothing. I walked between dreams, only watching. But they dreamed of _me_ ; they hated me, those that feared me. Too many dreams, too many of me.

That is why, and because part of them knew what I was. What I am. What I will become.

 _They_ shall learn.


	23. A Place to Call Home, part 2

The sirines are confused. I can feel their thoughts; the questioning note in their ever present song. They do not ask, but they want to know. They do not understand, cannot understand; how could they? It is as strange to them as living underwater is to me.

My plan is in ruins. The gnolls, _my_ gnolls – can I even do this any more? This doubt, it gnaws at me; it eats away… why can I feel _her_ hand tousling my hair, as she stands tall; taller in the boots she's elevated. The books she's put out of reach, _my_ books. That smile – no, I am no longer that boy.

It… why does she have this effect on me?

I gave the signal. We attack.


	24. A Place to Call Home, part 3

Their numbers were vast. The host was scattered; small bands dozing around campfires, still drunk from the night before. Many had not even noticed the slain; even with the dead, they counted hundreds. That was my mistaken impression; it was closer to two-three hundred. A warband had set off after the mercenaries, and there were more gnolls on the other side of the ravine; I did not see this.

They did not expect another assault; abandoning my plan, I tossed caution to the wind, and our charge took them by surprise. From the ridge, we commanded a view of the fortress's eastern wall, where the main gate was, and the steps leading to it. When we struck, we struck their south. Here, the wall was strong, but only at its base. Through neglect, and patchwork fencing, years of rot and erosion, the palisade fell with pitiful ease. Bear smashed through the logs in a single charge, and while stone flanked us, we burst through the hole.

It was chaos. It was slaughter. Arrows flew, the toxin freezing the gnolls where they were; mid-step, curled up; roaring. The battle cries turned to whimpers, terror taking hold. Why wouldn't it? Their fellows, their… _packmates_ falling around them; not dead, but still. And Xvarts. The absurdity of it. Xvarts slashing at the shins of gnolls; xvarts who barely reached a man's waist, and gnolls, three times the height of a man. Their stooping gait made them look like gangly hunchbacks; their armour did nothing to avail them; we hit hard, without warning.

Then the sirines' song began.

Shimmering in the air, they veiled themselves; beauteous blues, sea greens; they were enchanting. I tore my eyes away; all around me, they vanished out of sight. They moved like silent gales; their song seized the minds of the weak, the feeble, and the confusion grew. Gnoll turned on gnoll; while the xvarts hacked away, dodging the immense halberds, and stomping studded boots, they thrust their swords up into the sole; cutting across, hamstringing, and felling them, drew steel across throats, plunged points into eyes. They were murderous.

I wanted to rein them in; I could not. There were too many of them. The shamans, I thought, but there were none here. The muscled giant had slain many, including the chieftain and some of his guard. The fortress was in disarray; but had it been the chieftain, or a lesser warlord? Around me, the howls rose to shrieks; the song drowned out all noise. I saw flashing steel, hafts and shafts; zipping across me, around me, I stood still. In the turmoil, the maelstrom, I merely… watched.

Already, I was walking in the minds of the sleepers; in the waking world, Bear fought all in my path, throwing himself teeth and claws at any who dared approach. The sirines had taken their places, forming a loose circle, or pointed star, with me at the centre; the range of their song spread. The xvarts continued to swarm their foes; turned gnolls attacked surprised and panicked allies; and I – I stepped among them, fearless.

It was like watching a dream play out, as if I were somehow dazed. The blood, the stench; suddenly these things seemed remote. Meaningless. The slaughter was horrific; limbs, eyes, teeth, fur, flesh, bile – none of it registered as anything more than a dim note. Crimson underpinned grey; the rolling fog of the dreamscape. _My_ world.

I reached out and touched the sleepers. One, by one, in timelessness; their dreams, so crude, so base, so… final. Bear flung himself forward, pulling me from the walk.

A challenge had been issued; the bellow shattered the distant hills. By now, the mercenaries were far across the bridge; the host could not follow them. Far to my left, I felt, rather than saw, the xvart shaman bring down the ropes; the planks clattered into the ravine. From across the chasm, I heard the tattooed man's roar, and with the sirines' muting our scuffle, I knew battle had been joined. The pursuers would not overtake _her_.

My attention returned to the present, to Bear. The gnoll that faced him was broader, stronger and meaner than his companions; he bore a giant sword, taller than any gnoll. In both paws, he swung, grinning through broken teeth. His eyes were maddened, and foam dribbled from his mouth. There was no chanting of names, only silence; even the Xvarts had paused.

Bear reared; the god of the xvarts half leapt, half threw himself aside. The monstrosity crashed into the flagstones, shattering them. With a mighty heave, the gnoll pulled the blade free, and with lightning speed, swung again. It was magnificent to behold; terrible, but magnificent. It arced over Bear's head, as the beast dropped to all fours; then he shoulder-barged the gnoll, and under the metal, there was the crunch of bone; ribs.

The gnoll staggered back, roaring in agony. Bear swiped; it broke the incoming forearm, knocking aside the huge sword. Streams of blood flew, flesh torn open to the bone; tendons, veins – Bear swiped again; this time at the creature's knee. Closing, his mouth bit down on the other knee, crunching through it. Dropping to its back, the gnoll no longer thought of fight, or flight, only of pain.

Its sword dangled uselessly; Bear trod over him, forepaw dropping weight onto the creaking ribs. The air was forced out; the dogged-face brute wheezed.

I realised I could end this. I could stop it now. With proper attention, the gnoll could heal–

The madness in its eyes said otherwise; Bears jaws reached towards the throat.

Bear stopped; teeth around the jugular, he waited. The other gnolls, those not caught in the song, began to back away.

I had not realised I had spoken.

Bear was looking at me curiously; he had not expected mercy, even though I had spared him. The gnolls were whimpering with their champion's defeat; those asleep had begun to awaken. The flagstones, though drenched in blood and worse, with bodily fluids running between their gaps, were slowly knelt upon.

Unsure of how to respond, the gnolls paid homage as if I were a… human.

"Heal him," I whispered, unable to look upon the sight any longer. I had own my bastion. But… at what cost?

The skull watched me.


	25. A Place to Call Home, part 4

The rumours are true. The iron is… infected. Most of the gnolls' weaponry is worthless. Most of the elite are dead; their chieftain slain by the tattooed man-giant. I am left with their crippled champion, and a frightened pack. There is so much to do.

It is worse than I imagined; this place is a ruin. The sirines maintain order, but I must prioritise needs; it is almost pitiful, but the gnolls look to me as some sort of saviour. It is strange; they respect my strength, but are wary; having assumed command, they trust me to organise.

I will organise them into teams on the morrow. The first thing is fell trees, craft spears, and soon bows. Fire will harden their points to steel-likeness. The pack is weak, and of the under-three hundred, I anticipate half are battle-ready, a third need to heal; combined, the assaults cost seventy dead, and many injured, some of whom will perish. The shaman will save those he can.


	26. A Place to Call Home, part 5

I have made a grave miscalculation: the walls were not repaired, because no one knows the secrets of mortar! I am no mason… the shaman says he can 'shape rock', but it will take time, and his energies are spent tending the wounded. I am unsure how to proceed.

I shall conduct a full inspection, if this rain ever lets up. For the moment, I have ordered shelters constructed to house the wounded, and the dead separated. Unless I can think of better, I will have the carcasses thrown into the ravine.


	27. A Place to Call Home, part 6

My 'walking has touched the minds of a wolf pack south of here. 'Winter wolves' the humans call them; I have enticed them with the promise of meat, and dens. When they arrive, the shaman will speak with them. Perhaps I can convince them to guard this place. Permission to range the isle, and safety to birth and rear their cubs is tempting; I know hunters prize their pelts.

At the very least, it will save the gnolls from polluting the river.


	28. A Place to Call Home, part 7

The champion will survive, albeit with a limp. He drifts in and out of consciousness, yet in his dreams, he sees me. His confusion is understandable; he wonders why I spared him, why I attacked the pack. Was it for the human witch they captured? Images of the robed woman the tattooed giant carried off are fixed in his mind. She was sniffing out their territory, and slew many warriors before they caught her. The gnolls had planned a feast; humans leave them well alone, usually. More and more, man infringes on their territory and they are forced to fight.

I have promised him a place at my side; that he will be a mighty warrior again. He will have many young, and men will fear him. Through the fever haze, he begins to trust, cagily accepting my authority, but is unsure where he stands. He sees me as a shaman, or priest; dreamwalking is a rare gift, and the gnolls are unused to its strangeness; they act as if superstitious.

I do not know if the Xvart shaman will restore the champion's knees, if he will ever walk tall again. I have told him to try. Magic may be enough to restore him. I can hardly take him to a temple, even if I found a priest powerful enough.

The work teams have been at the forest for two days. They have done better than I had hoped, given what little they have. I have set the she-gnolls to sharpening the ends, scavenging for food, and watching the cubs. The males, those not on guard duty, will begin quarrying. At some point, the bridge must be rebuilt, but for now it is better we are cut off from the mainland. When things are more stable, I will have a set of watchtowers constructed, lining the ravine, and a palisade gateway to guard the bridge. For now, the important thing is to restore the gnolls to strength.


	29. A Place to Call Home, part 8

I have named my four 'priestesses'; it is time I expanded what I am. The shaman has become my 'hand'; the gnoll champion my 'sword', and I have drafted a new, elite guard in the form of a prize; they shall become my 'temple-throne guard'. Bear, whom I have learned the Xvarts call 'Ursa', sits at my side, the wolves at my feet. It is a start.

In my sleep, the skull whispers assassins will come for me. It mocks me for claiming what is not my own, that the other gods will not stand for this; I have made an enemy out of them. This time, I fear it speaks true. I must move swiftly.

I have decided I will learn the knife; my four have begun to show me and the brigands can teach me to brawl. I am unprepared for hand-to-hand, and I could not stop a swordsman of even moderate skill. Dodging arrows will be trickier. If it comes to it, the shaman and his knowledge of herblore and fungi will give me the edge, but that will mean nothing if I'm dead. I am ever aware of my own mortality, and the skull plays off this vulnerability. It manipulates me into using my sire's power, the divine blood that runs through my veins. I do not want its barbed gifts, but if I am to survive, I cannot ignore it.

I will begin practising tomorrow, as will my new 'priestesses'.


	30. A Place to Call Home, part 9

The gnolls have been set to digging wells; quarrying without tools is folly. I realised my mistake as they begun to chip away at the rock with only rusty spears. How easy it is to overlook the simplest of tasks; to forget how little one can do. Shovels, picks – these things I take for granted; now, they pound away at the earth with stones tied to sticks, and scope the earth up in baskets.

They dislike the work, but are careful not to test my patience; they mute their yapping when I am near, and fear I will see into their waking minds as well as their dreams. Fortunately, they do not consider me weak for altering my instructions; they see it as mercy, and are grateful. Their attitude is almost childlike.

As a reminder, I have set Bear to stand nearby the work. He seems content enough, though he stares at the wolves until they back away with flattened ears. The gnolls ignore the wolves, afraid of my wrath if they prevent them stealing scraps. They have dragged the carcasses away, having feasted. Now they skulk around, growling and darting aside when a gnoll walks in their way. The gnolls growl back; teeth are bared, but no bites exchanged. The pack's alphas rein their lessers in.

Gradually, they grow used to each others' presence; at night, the wolves begin to lie near the fires. They know they are welcome at mine, and through dreams, I have told the gnolls to leave the wolves be. Soon, they will understand the value of their watch; of the sirines, the wolves leave them alone.

The younger wolves seem more amiable, chasing the xvarts playfully; were they not the village's best warriors, I would find it laughable. I have called them sternly to task, but I will not stop their play entirely. This afternoon, I saw one xvart roll under a charging wolf, seize his fur and scramble atop the beast. The wolf was so confused it stopped mid-stride, then leapt forward when the xvart put his heels to his flanks. For the next few minutes, the wolf tried to shake the xvart off, but valiantly, the blue warrior hung on.

I can't help but wonder…


	31. A Place to Call Home, part 10

The gnolls have accepted their sirine overseers, and have begun to revere them. They begin to learn what it is to serve the son of a God.

I need mortar…


	32. A Place to Call Home, part 11

Perhaps in time, I will find one who will build mills and the wind will be harvested. I must find a way of purifying the water; the perpetual downfall has washed the fort clean, but the gnolls, and even the wolves begin to grumble. They do not like this grey. The sirines are at ease with it, and they seem to be the only ones enjoying the rain. Even Bear is grouchier than usual, and the xvarts glare, as if it is somehow _my_ fault.

The wounded are slowly recovering, and through the shaman's attentions, it should not be too much longer before my champion walks. How well he will walk I cannot tell. The makeshift shelters need reinforcing, but stuffing them with moss, and a crude wattle the xvarts utilise keeps them mostly dry. It is the wind that causes the most problems; it tears through the ruined fort, howling and stinging any exposed flesh. I am concerned for my sirines, but they seem unaffected by the chill; the wolves too.

We have built no fires; everything is too wet to burn. I am loathed to waste magic trying, but instead, I try to learn the sirines' ability to veil themselves. Somehow, they bend the light around them, taking on the colours of their surroundings. It is a strange thing, and so far, I have not succeeded. They tell me to _feel_ , like the waves over the sand, the underwater currents. Slowly, I begin to grasp their meaning, but practice will take time.

Work is slowed by the rain, and the gnolls grow restless. With tempers growing short, I am amazed that progress continues to be made. At least I have time to think.


	33. A Place to Call Home, part 12

Sickness has spread through the wounded's ranks; we lost three in the night. I pray it is not some sort of fever; only the chill and damp that affects them. The shaman does what he can, but I fear it is not enough. If this continues, I will order the worst put out of their misery and emptied into the ravine. I cannot allow this to spread.

All dung is placed in sleds; it will fertilise the fields. It is impossible to ship it to the village, but at least it is stored in one place. I just hoped the 'sleds' will hold; branches lashed together… I need a tanner; one or two of the gnolls seem to know how to cure hides, but it is crude. The stench from their water wafts far; carried by the wind, it is inescapable.

I don't know how the gnolls will last the winter; where is all the food? It should not have taken me this long to discover the stockpiles are depleting. Can the forest sustain so many? If we find enough game, perhaps, but what of next year? The only stores I've found are poorly preserved meat, buried in caches. No wonder the gnolls surrendered so easily; they were weak from hunger. The means of my arrival provided fresh meat, which is why none have complained, but the remains are all but gone. Now I am left with two hundred hungry gnoll warriors, not to mention she-gnolls and cubs.

I have dispatched foraging parties. They will have to wait a little longer for food.


	34. A Place to Call Home, part 13

The gnolls' attempt at fishing is one of the funniest things I've ever seen. I don't quite know how it caught on, but they seem to be enjoying it. Some of them dive in after the fish, battered in the face by a flapping tail; others use a line and tackle; others cast spears. No matter what, all involved seem to end up sodden, and some growl at those making them wet, and sometimes brawls break out, the entire point of the trip forgotten.

Some return with baskets bearing one, two, or even five fish of varying sizes. Barely enough to feed one gnoll, it keeps their mind off the rain. A few are beginning to prove quite adept. I have sent the latest out with vine nets; we will see how well they do.

Endearing though it is, it cannot sustain them forever. I set the xvarts to making snares; crabbing and the like were things _she_ dirtied her hands with as a child. I… did not. Even I know that without boats, we cannot haul in larger catches, and I do not think gnolls are ready for sailing. The waves will not allow it, not when they are so ill-tempered. The wreckers will help fish the river, but I do not expect much.

I must breed fish and rear livestock if we are to maintain our numbers; I am no farmer, but the xvarts are. They tend fields, not beasts, but tales of xvart raiders after farmers' cows are well known. Perhaps we could partake in this tradition? To be reduced to a common thief…

If we had fields, it would be different. We do not, and we are cut off from the xvart village. Nuts and berries are not in season; neither is fruit. When it is, it will have to be gathered, planted. It will have to be next year. The shaman will know…

It is my hope that reservoirs will be built, and fish can be fed into it. The most I can do right now is gather as much rainwater as I can, and order containers made. In the meantime, I have learnt we are not as cut off as I thought; there is a crossing near the southern tip, where both sides are shallow. As soon as the rains let up, I will send a detachment of gnolls to connect with the stranded survivors. The man-giant will not have slain all of them, but now the mainland is open to us. I will carve a path to the xvart village, but their crops will not be ready for months; in any event, the crossing must be fortified.

Those gnolls across the river will join us, or become food for the rest.


	35. A Place to Call Home, part 14

I have lost count of the number of days the skies have wept upon us. Last night, there was a storm more violent than any I can remember; perhaps it is because I am not sheltered within the thick walls of home. Out here… everything is more terrifying. The lightning flashed in sheets across the waves; the thunder deafened us for hours. The younger wolves, even the adults, whimpered and brushed up against their elders; many were snapped at, but found refuge in my hands. Never have my palms been licked so.

The sirines were unfazed; they are elemental beings, and fear neither water nor sky; untouched by the fear, they were as statues. I tried to forge the same resolve, but no matter how calm I seemed outwardly, I winced inside with each closing crash. My four were pitiless, but I did not want nor ask for pity; even so, they sang within my mind.

The storm brought back memories. Memories of when I was a child, when we were children. Being cooped up inside never bothered me, but she was always restless. Rain would pit against the glass panes; through diamond-shaped iron frames, she would watch. Clambering on the bed the way she did trees, she would crack jokes, tell stories, and then yell with each bolt, as if to deafen _it_.

Sat at my narrow desk, I could never decide which was more distracting; the thunder and the flashes, or her.

As long as she was there, there was no reason to fear. She never did.

The night passed us, and the dawn, for the first time in an age, was clear. The sunshine was bright, blindingly so, and all of us begun to dry out. Only the sirines did not care for this development.


	36. A Place to Call Home, part 15

The gnolls should reach the xvart village soon; three bands set out, two to find their fellows, and the last with orders to secure the village. A palisade will stall any future surprise assaults, and the gnolls presence, along with two of the elite xvart warriors, will remind the village whom it is they serve.

I wish I knew how to build war machines. I doubt the dwarven smith will know, or if he has been able to craft any tools, but it is time I checked his progress. I expect a corridor cleared before the next tenday is out.


	37. A Place to Call Home, part 16

Everything progresses. The ground has yet to dry out. Work has resumed; the teams alternate between digging and carrying; the earth they shift goes to the new outer wall. I have decided on a mound. An earthen wall will fill the gaps until we are able to plug the stone with mortar.

The fever holding the sick has broken; I don't know how he did it, but the forest plants the shaman distilled has spared their lives. Some of them are already back on their feet; thank the gods the healthy did not fall victim to this. The dead have been disposed of; the wolves were not pleased at the waste, but bowed to my decision. In all, we lost seven. My limping champion was not amongst them.

The storm left me thinking. Perhaps that is why I chose this place; because it reminds me of Candlekeep, of home. Though the two look nothing alike, in its own strange way… it _feels_ alike. The stones… the ruins where chambers once stood; I can imagine vaulted halls, of shelves filled with tomes. I think… it could be so again.

The ship I have not forgotten; when the seas calm, I shall return to the cove; it is high time I checked on Sil. For now, there is too much to do. If only I had joined the militia at home for training, I could drill the gnolls. The brigands are of no use; they care as much for militia discipline as I did. Whatever passing methods I observed, I desperately try to recall. There are regular patrols now, and the gnolls are becoming used to 'discipline'; to think it had to start with a regular 'bed time', and 'potty training'. I am the son of a god, not a nanny!

The skull says nothing, but I feel it watching, always watching. I wonder how long it will be until the assassins come for me.


	38. A Place to Call Home, part 17

There is a tribe of scavengers north of us; carrion feeders, 'gibberlings'. Wild, clawed creatures, like gaunt Halflings, they are purple skinned, with black beards and manes. I have seen them from Candlekeep's rooftops, but it is a rare sight. They are diseased; even the xvarts despise them. I doubt the sirines could command them; they are a menace I cannot leave to overrun the isle. They may prevent invaders, but they are cowards. If I am to expand, there is not enough room for us both.

I remember reading the scent of blood drives them into a frenzy; they eat their own, whether living or dead. I must have the north for fields; much of the isle is rocky, and will yield little, but it is sheltered. That forests grow might allow for clearings to be farmed; the gnolls have the strength to plough, but without iron, they must dig. The trees roots will go deep, and I will not sacrifice our source of wood. Now we are connected to the mainland, the fields can wait; the gibberlings must go.


	39. A Place to Call Home, part 18

I am surprised that the gnolls will not eat gibberling; so foul are they, their corpses have been left to rot as bait for the rest. The gnolls take great joy in this 'sport'; I do not even have to send the sirines with them. They return to the 'den' happy as puppies. Cheerfully they yap, and delight in my praise; they are so eager to be led. It is absurd; I do not even reach their chest, but how they scrap and bow, vying for my attention. How they display their trophies at my feet! I have become one of them; in their eyes I might as well be furred.

I'm not quite sure what to make of this; their females regard me as 'pack leader'; they fawn and flaunt themselves before me. Fortunately, they recognise I have been 'claimed' by the sirines; I allow my limping champion and those that please me to choose mates; all the gnolls accept this, and are pleased! It would seem choosing mates for them is the proper thing to do…

Gnolls are odd. They ignore the defeated champion's shambling, but only because he is mine; the she-gnolls understand he will breed strong young, so perhaps that is the real reason they tolerate him.

Perhaps I should have the shaman summon she-bears?


	40. A Place to Call Home, part 19

I have observed a change in my followers; though it has only been a short while, since the rains have stopped, everyone seems to be working together, albeit in their own way. There is a… shift in their regard for one another, an acceptance, almost. I no longer have to issue commands all the time; I watch, as they follow out instructions, and slowly, they learn what is needed for themselves. I am pleased I have to prompt them less, though I am aware I cannot permit them to become too independent, lest they depose me.

The gibberling purge continues. It has become a game, and a matter of honour, to the gnolls. The war parties compete; it has turned into a 'who can kill the most gibberlings in the most entertaining way'; gnoll humour has a lot to be desired. They string corpses from trees, just out of reach of the living, and trap the gibberlings drawn to the feast.

Sometimes it is not corpses they string up, but live ones, bleeding and rolled in dung. They take great glee in urinating over their prey, which seems to attract more gibberlings than non-marked. I don't know how they discovered this, and I do not care too; I should put a stop to this, but they deserve their fun. I just hope it doesn't turn to torture; I have warned them that that crosses a line.

Their resourcefulness surprises me; they have learnt to dig pits, and have begun to add sharpened sticks. Now the gibberling dangles precariously over leaf-strewn hole from a tree, and his kindred, who have come to eat him, plunge onto the waiting stakes below. I suppose I can't fault them, as it spares them from wounds and disease, but…

The wolves go with them, and the hunt strengthens the bond. It is as if they have hunted together all their lives. …I find myself hard pressed to imagine a time without them; the xvart shaman instructing an earnest gnoll is a sight so familiar, that no one blinks. The aloof sirines and their song; winter wolves as tall as the sirines in some cases… even the fortress is beginning to take shape. I do not think anyone in Candlekeep would believe me if I told them how a xvart, shin high to a nodding gnoll, sent him off to find herbs in the forest. Or how a bear, once worshiped as a tribal god, butts his head on the wolf whelps, gruff, grumpy, and… playing with them. I'm not sure I believe it myself.


	41. A Place to Call Home, part 20

It has been a month since I took the gnoll's stronghold; the lack of food is being dealt with, but I lack enough for the winter cold. It is still two seasons away, but if we do not prepare now, we will starve.

We are coping without iron, but slowly. What little we have is rusted and old; it seems that only the newer iron is affected.

I begin to think I should travel to Nashkel, to see if their ore is decent. To do so would reveal my presence, so I may send the slaves; would they be recognised? The remaining brigands, three, not including the thief-taker, teach the gnoll warriors their trade. I suspect all are wanted by the law. The 'taker continues augmenting my sirines' tracking.

The shipping lanes have been quiet, though we see a few pass each tenday. I am told by the brigands they are due to meet with 'Kagain' at each full moon; the dwarven caravan master may be the link I need. The sirines' baubles will serve me well, but Sil will hardly release her trove willingly. My hope is the slave-mage has raised enough from the wrecks to avoid resorting to pearls; sealed cargo can still be traded as 'salvage', or so the brigands inform me…

Another month and the gnolls will be organised into companies, a sirine or two at their head; now that those over the river have joined us, I hope to form six or seven warbands. Thirty to fifty, I shall arm them with spears and bows, though they are still hopelessly inept with the bow.

I am glad to say that most of the cut-off gnolls joined us; some did not, but several surrendered after their leaders were cut down. In all, I say another hundred or so; mainly scattered in bands of ten to twenty. There may be more out there, but I have an army now.

The more able, nimbler and inventive gnolls, I have put under the thief-catcher; those natural hunters amongst them shall become scouts, and roam ahead with the winter wolves. It will take time, but I have impressed upon them the rewards: food. With the right motivation, they are proving to be adept students.


	42. A Place to Call Home, part 21

I have organised four bands. So far, there are two I trust to follow my commands fully; another is almost in readiness, but is impatient, like the last. Despite the hunts, forays and training, they grow restless; they are eager for action, for the promised meat. I do not know how long I can hold them back, or how long I _should_ hold them; if I tame them too much, I will break their spirit.

I have decided to hold some back in reserve, to guard the fort. Along with the work-teams, there are enough for two companies, should the need arise.

It is time to start planning the raid on Nashkel's mines.


	43. A Place to Call Home, part 22

Through the brigands, Kagain has informed me iron is too expensive to trade in bulk, too scarce. This does not surprise me, but my concern is growing. A panic has swept the towns, and even the Amnish guards are desperate; bandits run rampant, and Nashkel's mines stand empty. I don't understand; hearsay claims they are haunted. They are the nearest source of ore; there are other mines up north, but none are local. Any new shipments would take months to reach us. I question how southern Amn, especially their capital, Athkatla is dealing with this.

If the mines are as empty as Kagain claims; and he has visited Nashkel recently, and to hear him tell it, only just surviving the bandits; then they should be taken easily. But if the ore _is_ infected, it will be less worthless; it could corrupt what precious little iron we have left. I hope the shaman will find a cure, but do I risk it? Surely, other mages have tried, and failed, or we would have seen a resolution to this months ago. Can I put my hopes in one, primitive shaman? But he is closer to nature than any I've seen; none in Candlekeep, no matter how learned, have such an affinity with the earth, sky or seas. He might see what others have missed. Otherwise…

I will make slaves of the town if I must. It will almost certainly provoke Amn, but Kagain believes the iron is an Amnish plot to weaken Baldur's Gate. It seems the city believes it too, for the 'Gate is sealed. Their 'Flaming Fist' does nothing; another reason not to trust mercenaries. If they are preparing for war, I should stay out of their way, but without iron, there are no tools; there is enough seed from last year's harvest for the xvart village to seed our fields. Fields that have not been cleared, let alone ploughed. We need to plant, and soon. The season is almost over…

I dare not risk trading for food, lest we are discovered; if Kagain could get into the 'Gate, I would have him import grain from Amn by sea, and have the sirines take the ship. Since he cannot, I am left with little choice; unless I resort to raiding hapless villages, or gnoll cannibalism, I see no other way.

Nashkel is where the infection began; Nashkel is where it ends. Tomorrow, we prepare for war.


	44. Best Laid Plans, part 1

Best Laid Plans

Damn her. _Damn her_. She is _mocking_ me. She has to be. How can she know? How does she _always_ know?! It is always the same; she waltzes in without a care in the world, and _ruins_ everything! Does it matter a whit to her that I have prepared this for _months_?! That I – _why must she always do this to me?!_

Nashkel. The mines. The journey took many days. Five days before we were due to strike, I received word; the scouts claim the caravans are leaving the mines, laden with ore. They to and fro from the town, stockpiling, gathering. I had to see for myself.

I cursed all the gods that ever lived. From the edges of the forests, where further in, my warbands lay waiting, I crept across the grasses to cliffs and the mine basin. Work had resumed; the miners carted ore to the surface as if there had never been any disruption. The foreman bellowed and guards stood watch.

The town was no better. Veiled like the sirine, I entered this Amnish excuse for a hovel; this, their furthest northern outpost, was nothing like the 'civilisation' they claimed to hold. Drunks in the streets, defacing walls with their excrement; the entire populace seemed taken with wine. I did not have to go far to find out why. The talk could be hear before I ever passed under a thatched roof; the sung praises of some northern _hero_.

A _heroine_. A band of mercenaries led by a girl just out of adolescence, with dancing eyes and a cheery smile. Courageously they entered the darkness, bested the 'demons' below, and rid the mines of the infection; an evil half orc was behind it all, holed up so deep no one had found him. Using kobolds, he poisoned the ore, and slew any who entered, their terrible fire-arrows and traps scaring away the bravest of souls.

Sickening. That a town could be bested by kobolds. They laughed about it now, now that they had their precious _trade_ back. Heaping riches and rewards on this _girl_ , she and her companions – two half elves, and a northern berserker, and a foreign witch – banqueted with them for two nights, and left, laden with more ore than they could use. 'Gone to put a stop to the bandits', one drunk had declared, thumping his chest, teary eyed; his companion was worse. 'Did you ever seen anything like them? Heroes, I tell you. The best of men.'

They spoke of the man-giant's tattoos, his accent and the fuzzy orange rat on his shoulder; his skill and daring with a blade more like a cleaver than sword. They spoke of the quiet and reserved half elf, a true warrior of exact finesse, how his and his wife's arced swords sang death. The robed witch, with her exotic charm and beauty, her raven hair and purple garb; and the girl, always the _girl_.

There would be statues made of them. Statues to occupy the town square; statues made of _iron_.

It was enough to make even the most stoic _scream_.


	45. Best Laid Plans, part 2

"We're going home."

My words left a trail of disbelief, and drooping ears; my gnolls could not believe it. "Order has been restored. We _trade_ for iron." My teeth were clenched; I couldn't believe it. To attack now would be useless; worse than useless. They would send hunters to track where the ore had been taken, and it would lead them straight back to us. All we could do was grit out teeth and retreat.

"We take any ships that pass our seas." I told them, unable to invigorate them, "We… fortify our home."

"Food, masser?" A gnoll, braver than the rest, moved by his belly, spoke up. I said nothing. What could I say? Were it not for the sirines, there might have been a riot; disheartened, I led them home.

"There will be food," I promised.

 _Damn her_.


	46. Best Laid Plans, part 3

Bandits. Bandits have always been a problem, but they have never bothered us at Candlekeep; our caravans are always guarded, and tomes so precious to us, are worth little to highwaymen. While they can sell them on, when the same books due to join our libraries appear mysteriously in Beregost's shops, the scholars get cranky.

With their iron restored, Nashkel became a prime target. Emboldened by such rich pickings, several bandits joined together and attacked the town directly. No caravans could get in or out, and the outpost became besieged. I heard about this from Kagain, who, at finally believing his fortunes had changed, cursed the gods for dealing yet another cruel hand.

None of it mattered to me. I later heard reports from the dwarf of how the same 'band of mercenaries', aiding a contingent of the Flaming Fist, found and razed a camp; the headquarters of the bandits. Two mercenary companies had been aiding the rabble, and after fierce fighting, had been routed. The survivors were put to the sword.

It seems along the way, the heroic band had rescued an elven mage, and a priestess turned to stone. Though the details were sketchy, the tales of these 'saviours' spread throughout the region. Beregost hailed them as their own, and age-old rivalry sprung up between them and Nashkel, as reinforcements from Amn broke the siege. Many of the bandits scattered, and those that were unfortunate to make their way into our forests did not get far.

Fortunately, the bounty hunters left us alone; with the camp's demise, both Baldur's Gate and Amn posted hefty prices on the bandits' heads. The region became infested. If that wasn't enough, my gnolls were demoralised and confused; even the few stray bandits they caught were not enough to lift their spirits. I did not have the heart to give the stragglers to the sirines; my gnolls might have turned on me if I had.

Shipping resumed, and gradually, I was able to appease my gnolls. With the threat lifted, I was, through Kagain, able to order grain. Though it was costly, we could afford it; the wrecks had finally yielded their treasures. Moreover, we were able to procure iron, and the dwarven smith in the xvart village forged ploughs for us, though it took us well into summer.

We struck with the storms, and the number of slaves taken increased. Shockingly, Sil had not rebelled; she seemed content to let me have some of her tribe, and now I was gone, she could rule her cove in peace. With the birthing season approaching, I ensured she would be undisturbed and we reached a peace of sorts.

The rest of the time I spent fortifying and planning, drilling and studying. My gnolls learned to fish, and even the wolves joined in. My xvarts, ever aware of the gnolls, decided it was best to oblige me, and were still in awe of 'Ursa', their ancient guardian. The shaman continued to forage and shape the rock the gnolls shifted, and finally, the outer wall began to take shape.

At the fortress, three wells were dug, and a reservoir planned; in the village, two wells and a water tower, palisade and ditch were built, and the chain of watchtowers along the ravine were begun. The southern pass was given a gate, ditch and earthen wall, and preparations for restoring the bridge were made.

It still wasn't enough. All summer, through Kagain, I heard about the 'heroic band'; both the elf and the priestess left the group, supposedly the latter heading north, and the former taking residence in Baldur's Gate. I sensed a ploy; my sister was nothing if not devious. 'Guile' was her middle name; whatever was afoot, she had likely sent her pet elf on ahead, while she played heroine with the rest of her motley band.

I refused to concern myself with it. I had far greater matters of import to consider, such as the coming harvest.

Eventually, my gnolls would get over the disappointment; there would be other battles, I told them. They were not inclined to listen, but unhappily accepted my words. They understood that a pack leader sometimes had to make hard decisions.

I began to wish for an enemy I could fight.


	47. Best Laid Plans, part 4

The first assassin was unexpected. All summer I had anticipated assassins, but this one came in the form of a sailor, a merchant. A cartel, the 'Iron Throne', had been buying up all the iron, and slowly selling it back to the people; with Nashkel reopening, their competitors had taken away their edge. This I learned from the man we caught amongst the rest of the crew; his orders came from one 'Sarevok Anchev', the supposed son of Reiltar Anchev, head of the Iron Throne.

The skull had laughed at me. It did not elaborate; I did not need it to. Something about the man's tale, about the rumours Sarevok was Anchev's foster child, connected with me. Something that went beyond simple understanding; a knowing in my blood. Something… stirred. The laughter had echoed the entire night.

I could not escape my fate. No matter where I hid myself away, no matter what I surrounded myself with, there would be _others_. Others like me. Did I think I was the only one? That this pitiful 'army' would be enough? I was a fool, deluding myself. That was what the skull implied.

I could not sleep after that; not even the sirines' song soothed me. For two days, I interrogated the man; he did not remember any of it. The ship had little of worth; the crew were under the sirines' spell. It was rare we took a ship intact, but this time, we had managed it. I had two choices: send the man back to this 'Sarevok', or dispose of him. The sirines' tampering might be detected, but if – if – this man was what I feared, what the skull hinted at, my only course was to murder him before he could murder me.

I sent him to Baldur's Gate.

The man had destroyed the security of my achievements. For the first time in a long while, I felt fear.


	48. Best Laid Plans, part 5

The gnolls shift with unease around me; these days, they try their best to avoid me. The winter wolves keep their distance; only my sirines show no concern with my ever darkening mood. Life proceeds as usual; nothing seems to have changed, but everything has. With summer's close, the harvest begins, and the leaves begin to turn, the trees preparing to shed them.

I cannot bear to think; it is all I can do to keep from pacing. The gnolls have put together a stone hut for me; it is in here I spend my days, in gloom and darkness. The braziers' light does little to warm me; the fur rugs so painstakingly caught and cured mean nothing. Nothing they can do appeases me; the Xvart shaman steers clear of me, appearing only to administer the fungal potions which let me sleep.

I do not mean to show my distress; there are clouds on the horizon, a darkness no other can see. A storm is coming, and I am stuck here. I could leave, take a ship, sail to Amn, or beyond. I will not leave this place, cannot. This is my home, these are my people. My plans have been disrupted, halted, and yet, work progresses. The walls are not enough; nothing is enough. Nothing can please me.

I live for the news of _her_ ; Kagain's words regale me, spoken through the brigands, of how the band entered Cloakwood. The grim, sinister forests between Candlekeep and Baldur's Gate had been used to plague my childhood with nightmares of what would happen if I didn't attend my studies; the spiders would eat me. Spiders as large as a gnoll's chest. Of beasts that herd the spiders as men herd horses; of mighty wyverns that lurk deep within the forest's depths. I am left wondering if they will ever emerge, and at once, I am caught with longing and… wishing they would not. If we two are the last, I do not want to kill her…

The sirines pay no heed to this, and for that, I am grateful.


	49. Best Laid Plans, part 6

The harvest has come and gone. Despite the rain, the gods have blessed us. The Xvarts' harvest has been bountiful, more bountiful than any could have dared hope. The dung from the gnolls has fertilised their lands and we have food; food enough to last the winter and beyond. The gnolls are cheering; they celebrate my name, and even the sirines seem happy. They never show it, but their song has changed; it is slight, but there. It is one of triumph, uplifting; their faces never change, still the same reserve aloof, but everyone shares the relief.

News of _her_ has reached me; after three months, she has emerged from the forests of Cloakwood; she has destroyed a hidden mine! An ancient dwarven mine! Who would have thought that such a thing could lie within the trees? Her fame spreads out before her, and I hear the tales of how she freed the slaves, and slew the evil necromancer overseer.

Kagain tells me that there are bounties on her head, circulated in the underworld, of ever rising rewards; many assassins have gone after her, and none have survived. She is emptying the 'Undercellar' in Baldur's Gate, he claims; one after another, greed convinces the murderers there, and not a one can touch her. He doesn't know why, but guesses she has incurred the wrath of a major player, a power within the 'Gate.

I know why.

She is my sister, and someone knows of her.

I have heard nothing of the man we caught; I did not expect the assassin to succeed. Kagain reports that there _was_ an attempt on Sarevok's life, and so enraged was he, that rewards have been posted for the one responsible. Rewards equalling those placed on _her_ head.


	50. Best Laid Plans, part 7

Our storehouses are full; we had to build new ones. The first snows have arrived; they come early, this close to the Cloudpeaks. South of the mountains, it is still warm, but here, the sea breezes blow bitterly, and the frosts greet us like old friends.

I have heard little more from Kagain; plying the shipping lanes has ceased, for now. The sirines are birthing, and both the gnolls and the wolves have had enough of foraging, and wish to shelter out of the winds. They will roam when the deep snows cover the lands, but for now, they rest.

I have travelled to the village; the palisade has been completed, the houses reinforced. The fields are bare, and everyone prepares for the coming cold. Ursa, travels by my side, and they greet him with an enthusiasm that is heart wrenching; it is matched only by their veneration of their 'god'.

I have left the cove alone, only journeying to the shore; the slave-mage has ceased his work, and returns with us to the fortress. There will be plenty for him to do later. His work over the summer has paid for the tools and ore we need; the smith has also joined us, and here, at the fortress I have set both to forging new tools. Tools of war.

My training of the sirines' arts grows in leaps and bounds; with my own blood, I harness the power of my dead sire, slowly, but with increasing frequency. I am nowhere near close to mastering it, but I can shield myself from view, cast aside arrows and swords alike. I learn the knife with alarming speed, as if my blood calls out to it; the forms feel natural, flowing like the waves.

The sirines have also learned to track; my four can summon my power, as the whole tribe believes I am a deity incarnate. It is slight, but growing. As I grow my own control, so too do they. They can light candles now, whereas before, they could produce barely a spark. But the power is real; it is there and the gnolls see it. It fuels their belief; the xvart princess, so long neglected, has also joined the ranks of the priesthood. Under the shaman, she learns potions, herblore and how to tap into my divine power.

Others, young warriors, from the village, I have brought back and paired with the younger wolves; the first phase of the wolf riding has begun. Already, they begin to bond with one another; once horrific foes, now they share their meals. With their fear melting, and their curiosity of one another increasing, they hunt and play together. It will not be long now…

The gnolls are impatient for battle, but they are stronger than before. I am convinced that had I attacked Nashkel, my losses would be great; if we were to fight the same battle, our losses would be few. Their archery has improved; their spears are terrible to behold. Both casting, lunging and sweeping, they practice for hours each day. Slowly, the army is taking shape, just as the fortress is.

Work will halt on the fortress for now; come spring, repairs must be made, and the bridge restored; that is the next great project: the bridge. But I have all I wished, and more. When the winter wolf pups are born, and I have more sirines, I will make my next advance.

I just need a target.

I wonder what giants the Cloudpeaks hold, if any. I will explore the passes after the snows melt. Fields will be ploughed, wood harvested, and we will be ready. Through the winter, our task is to craft arrows. We will stockpile enough that not even the ships will resist us. Our shaman has the resin he needs, and has produced a glue I had not thought possible; I will never think of the Xvarts as primitives again. There is so much to learn from them.

The skull says nothing.


	51. Best Laid Plans, part 8

"Look massster! Look what we caught!"

"Snooping!"

I was greeted by angry yipping; the gnolls were so excited they were bouncing. I obeyed, seeking out the object of such intense interest: a woman… a… paladin? My blood ran cold. There was no way I could deny the emblem on her surcoat.

"She killed Rauz!" A third gnoll growled, his companions barking their assent; "You tell us no kill man-things; to catch, so we catch."

There was no need to praise them; they knew obedience, even acting contrary to their instinct, pleased me. I had not turned on them, as an angered pack leader might, and this was reward enough. Several of them bore wounds, some still bleeding. Fierceness lit their eyes; harsh panting filled the air. I knew they wanted vengeance; vengeance from _my_ hand.

I was surprised they hadn't cooked her; be it from the lack of man-sized pot, or deference to my wishes, it did not matter. They had trussed her up well, hoping to feed on her. Upon my word, no, upon my silence, the fires would be prepared; they would roast her alive. Fuelled by anticipation, their agitation increased, tails twitching with mounting impatience.

Taking in her blond hair, I looked more closely; her blue eyes and northern complexion revealed a hardness many lacked. She was a warrior, born and bred; more used to a life of hardships than books, the armour she wore with such pride had been earned. There was a conviction in her solid gaze, steady, determined – inflexible. It was not the eyes of a zealot, but reasoned, rational belief, undeniable and true. Her study was war; this was more terrifying.

"What's your name?" I spoke simply, calmly. The intelligence in those unblinking blue orbs sharpened; whatever she was expecting, I was not it.

"You _command_ these… dogs?"

I ignored that.

After a moment, she answered, every bit as hard as the steel she wore. Steel, I noted, that had not turned to rust. Clear, ringing, defiant. "Laurel, of the Radiant Hart."

"Why did you come here? Where are your companions?" I did not want to give her time to think, time to take the offensive. I was in control; she was _my_ prisoner. Why did only the gnolls believe that? I did not let any doubt touch me.

Coolly, I regarded her; she seemed in her twenties, early thirties. I could not gauge her age; the mail she wore bore no indication of rank I could see. But I know little of the fighting arts and their orders; only one sort of armour from another. Hers stank; oiled leather held her fitted cuirass, which, boasting pauldrons and plated skirt, gleamed with mirror-likeness. Ringlet gauntlets and boots saw workmanship just as fine, but otherwise she was dressed plainly. Only the white surcoat and breastplate backed her claim.

She had come to kill me.

"Ilvastarr went north; Bjornin's dead. Ogres killed him." The flatness of her words struck home; her eyes belied her pain, but she did not give into it. She took my silence as an invitation to elaborate. "Sir Keldorn Firecam ordered us to investigate this so-called 'Iron Plague'; Bjornin and I were returning to Athkala to make our report."

"But why are you here?"

"I was tracking the last Ogre." She lifted her head proudly, "There were seven; though Bjornin fell, there were two survivors. I followed them for four days and nights before I found their fire; one escaped me, but not for long."

In spite of myself, I nodded; the gesture was slight, but she acknowledged it. No condolence was accepted; she scorned the notion though I had not given it, in truth. I think.

"He was a great man; who stood when beset by foes. With final last breath, his spear slew the beast that killed him."

"You were lovers?" I could not help but ask, though I expressed it only as mild curiosity.

"Comrades."

As if I had insulted her, she levelled disdain through her gaze; I could not help but admire her. Though bound, she addressed me with dignity.

"And Sir Ilvastarr?"

"Ajantis believed there was more to this than simple superstitions and tricky cast by one lone half-orc. He chose to follow the mercenaries that beat us there by eight day's march."

I realised then how close I had come to disaster; withdrawing _had_ been the right choice. If two paladins could overcome seven ogres, how would they have fought against gnolls, whose strength could not compare even ten to one? With Nashkel's guard backing them, we would have been slaughtered; victory would not have been worth the cost.

It struck me that we were having a civilised conversation; that despite being out here in the wilderness, amidst the ruins, mountain peaks and sea, in the dead cold of winter, neither of us had raised our voices. No threats had been issued, no challenges given; she had not demanded her freedom, nor spoken of her 'rights' as a paladin. It was strangely… captivating. I did not realise how much I had missed it.

All the while, she watched me. Nothing of her inner thoughts plied her exterior; she was completely calm. I found I was too. I watched my own reflection in her eyes; I looked so still, so… young. Momentary ire bit me, but under her stare, it faded.

"And the rest?" I prompted; she had not smiled, but a flicker of amusement passed her eyes; was I some demanding youngling, begging a tale? Spinning an engrossing yarn is a tradition all warriors follow, even the gnolls, if hearsay is to be believed, but I was no whelp pleading at a veteran's knee. Even so, I found myself inwardly waiting with bated breath.

"I finished spitting the ogre and had turned north when your gnolls found me." She made it sound as if she was taking a stroll through the forest; that spearing an ogre was no harder than taking a bath. I was appalled; flabbergasted, I felt irritation rise. In an instant, her cooperation vanished.

"Release me, you who associate with monsters." The words were formal, a challenge. Something about her turn of phrase struck me; stubbornness replaced indignation. She ignored my clenching jaw; "My death here will only draw others."

"Trying to spare my soul, _paladin_?" I made it sound like a curse; perhaps it was.

"It's not too late for you," Gentling as she tried a different tact, I saw… pity; not for her… for me. "Call off your hounds; turn yourself in. Let me help you."

The skull started laughing.

Everything inside me went cold. I would never be 'saved'; those few words, cast in ignorance, made me realise the truth. The truth about what I was. With that knowledge, the true extent of who I was finally dawned. If gnolls, who fished the river and seas, who mourned a pack-brother, were considered monsters, then the horror that lurked inside me was darker beyond imagining. How much more terrible was I, the Son of Murder, than these childlike beasts that knew no better, delighting in pain because no parent had ever shown them a better way? They were not innocents, but acted according to their nature. I… I had a choice, and I had acted according to mine. My throat seized up.

"You know nothing of what you speak."

"Whatever dark magicks you have embraced, whatever lies you have believed, there is still time to atone, to repent. Turn from this path; save yourself from torment. Judgement need not be damnation; mercy may be given, clemency shown."

She meant it; she truly believed she could save me. What had she seen; why? That I had not yet set the gnolls on her; that perhaps I was simply 'lost'; a 'misguided' soul in need of salvation? Or was it some bid to buy time, to convince me to let her go free–

"Let me help you," she repeated gently, even kindly, "we could leave this place together. These ruins are no place for you; come with me."

Somewhere, I was insulted; this was my home. We had worked so hard, but her persistence tugged at me. Something in her patient tone spoke to a place buried deep inside; a place I had forgotten about. The truth was I was lonely. I missed home… I missed _her_.

The paladin wasn't lying; she _would_ protect me against 'evil', but not the darkness from within. No one could.

Our eyes had held the entire time, but when I raised mine from my heart's depths, I could not hold back my sorrowful, fatal acceptance; nothing else touched my face.

"You can't save me, Laurel."

"You don't have to–"

I stepped from my waking mind into hers; I sang not the sirines' song, but a song of my own, a waking dream.

"Look at me," I compelled, "look."

She did; together, we dove down into my depths, through infinite darkness, to the core of my inmost being. From within my soul, we entered a realm; a realm whose base was blood, where blackness danced as flame, and at its centre, the mocking skull. No amount of faith could shield her from the truth.

Involuntarily, she shrank back; I held her. Locked against her screaming gaze, I repeated, "You cannot save me."

The laughter echoed, even as we 'woke'.

"Demon," she half hissed, half gasped, her composure shattered, "What are you?"

I took her words with quiet acceptance; I did not bother to deny them. I knew I was that, and more. "An abomination," I replied calmly, sadly, "Spawn, from one of your _gods_." Never had such hate been found in so simple a word, "A mockery of life, a… shade veiled in mortal flesh. A son of Murder." I paused, finally voicing the truth, "A sacrifice."

Horror and compassion filled her disbelieving stare; sudden pride flared within me. Despite everything, she pitied _me_? Had I been her god, and she been mine, my heart would have burst. It did nothing to quell my bitterness. The gnolls whined; they did not understand, sensing only something was terribly wrong and they were powerless. It gave me pause.

"Go; I release you."

Now it was her turn to stare incredulously.

"Only… do not return. I… do not want to hurt you." Why was I pleading? Here she stood bound, my captive, helpless before me, and I… pleaded? "Send no others… no more blood needs be spilt, not until my 'brothers' find me." I could barely look at her, "This – your presence here, Rauz… an accident, a misunderstanding. Go. I will leave this life soon enough; leave me with these 'monsters'; the demon inside is far, far worse."

Whatever anguish hid itself in my tone was nothing to the turmoil within; my inner shame never surfaced, tears never touching my face. Hers… swallowed me; I could not bear it and turned away.

"I will pray for you," she whispered; as a gnoll cut her loose, it was as if the falling rope sealed the vow. Never had I been so hurt, so unable to answer.

"I… I hope you find some peace," she offered, faltering. Wan in the smile I _felt_ rather than saw, I could do no more than close my eyes; hers reached for me, searching. She could have ended it there, snatching a knife from the gnoll's belt, plunging it into my back… part of me wished she had.

All retorts, all bitterness fled my mind; I could only lock my legs, aware they were about to give out. Bravely, her hand squeezed my shoulder. Neither of us listened to the growls; focused on the distant awareness they could hack off her outstretched arm, that given what was inside me, what I _was_ , for that single moment, she was perhaps the most courageous soul in existence. Had I asked her to stay, in that instant, I knew she would.

"Go…" The word was barely audible; through parched lips I forced myself. It took everything I had; if she had waited another second, my resolve would have crumbled. We both knew if she stayed, she would die. Again, I felt rather than saw, her single nod; back-pedalling, and then wheeling, her steps carried her away, unchallenged; as they faded, I sank to my knees, finally allowing grief to take me.

For a moment, the clouds parted, and light touched me; then it slipped away. The bitter of winds returned, falling on my flesh as I hugged my arms. Their salt sting could not touch what I felt inside; I desperately wanted to chase after her, plead with her to stay, to… have someone to talk to. Someone… not of the sirines' slaves. Someone who saw the best in me, when I could only see darkness.

It was impossible. Her god would demand my death; a Spawn would kill her in their quest to reach me.

The gnolls whined, distressed and confused; they had never seen me distraught. That they tried to cheer my spirits touched me more than words can ever say.

I don't know how long I sat out there, how long the winds swirled around me, bringing their flecks of snow; I did not notice their chill, the melt upon my skin. All I remember is the gnolls stayed with me, nuzzling up against me; shielding me with their warmth. Later, the wolves joined them, and finally, after my will gave out, I felt the sirines' song soothing me; it had been there the whole time, but only in my dreams I heard it. The dim sensation of being carried; of weightlessness, the gnolls' hot breath, and finally, as the clouds shifted high above, did I listen.

I was not alone.


	52. Best Laid Plans, part 9

A gnoll with a ball is a sight I'd never thought I'd see. That an inflated bladder, stitched securely, can provide endless entertainment as they seek to possess it, keep it in the air, or bash it, is both a mystery and endearing. That is, until they are distracted and lose interest. Add twelve more to the mix, and the xvart wolf-riders, and there is a recipe for both hilarity and chaos.

How it started, I'll never know, but _nothing_ seems to keep them from it for long. And nothing, not even watching a fully grown gnoll dive after the fish that has tail-slapped his face, belly flop and thrashing as if he were drowning in his desperate determination to reclaim his prize, is as funny. Two hoops, a yard, and a game is readied. I have to constantly remind them not to hit, bite, or seize stones, branches, or each other, or a brawl breaks out.

The only thing they seem to find as enjoyable as playing is watching; they cheer hardest when a team-mate falls, and is set upon by several others, usually from both sides. At this point, a free-for-all begins, and any rules are thrown out; if they're feeling particularly boisterous, even the spectators join in. For some reason, they don't enjoy it as much unless _I'm_ involved, even if its simply calling them to heel.

The sirines do not see the fun in it; if they deigned to speak, I have no doubt they would use the words " _landwalkers_ " in place of "lumbering oafs"; as it is, they seem not to care at all. As usual, they hold themselves higher than the rest of us, at times, myself included. I have decided it most unwise as to hazard as to the why of this; I suspect I would incur a great deal of wrath in the form of chill looks and aloofness.

I doubt their superiority is deliberate, though I wonder sometimes; it is simply they concern themselves with… other things. On occasion, they make their displeasure known in the form of a steady stare, or an icy glare, and anything I say, do, or do not do, only worsens their temperament. Indeed, they ignore me, and there is nothing I know that will turn this; eventually, they soften, but I am always left feeling foolish and as awkward as the gnolls I supervise.

As it is, the sirines will not allow me to join in the gnolls' game; I _feel_ their disapproval, and I fear they will shriek at me should I disobey their warning. Rarely, they have voiced their ire at the gnolls; never have I seen a gnoll scamper away so quickly, desperately covering his ears with his paws. At such times, the xvarts scatter; the wolves whine, and no one will go near the sirine, not even her sisters.

For this reason, I must content myself with watching; now I have expected the concept of 'teams', the level of competition has risen greatly. A reward for the most 'points', 'best play', and 'least brawls', ensures a… fairer game.

I wish sis was here to see this…


	53. Best Laid Plans, part 10

Usually the wolves roam far; winter is their natural habitat, their time of travel, but this year, they haven't. I would be sad to see them go, but the shaman tells me leaving their dens is normal. One pack can span an entire mountain range! When they chose my hearth, I was understandably delighted; they frolic in the snow, and wander the length of the isle, but go no further. It may be a few nights, but they always return.

I am welcomed with warmth, and reverence in equal measure; nuzzling and whining excitedly, these silver-furred snow-walkers lick my palms like hungry puppies and rest their paws on my shoulders and thighs. I find myself collapsing in a heap, furry masses tickling and crushing me; I cannot help but laugh, and any dignity is lost; they love to mock-duel, and they wrestle me to the floor.

They are as desperate as the gnolls for my attention, these cold-blooded killers. They even share their kills with me, dragging nomadic deer back from the high reaches and plateaus of the mountain slopes. Such… loyalty.

It is because they do not range far this year the trouble started. Seasonal hunters, denied their quarry, had to look further afield; why they didn't try for other packs is quite beyond my ken. Invariably, however, it led some of them to me.

It was a day like any other; the xvarts riders were with their wolves, as always. Unlike the spring skies, it was bright, crisp, and not a cloud in sight. It had been many days since we saw rain, but we had plenty of water. Everywhere was white, as it had been for months, and only the pale blue above escaped the waist-deep drifts. Only the river, too fast flowing, remained free; even the seas were beginning to freeze.

Her name was "Sendai", a noble of Amn. She and her thugs were after the prized pelts of vicious bears, wolves and anything else they found to be of 'sport'. Apparently, bravery in Amn is breaking into the den of a slumbering bear, killing it, and dragging it back to be stuffed, or for use as a rug.

Their bows felled several of the riders and wounded their mounts. How four selfish humans could do so much harm… it makes my blood boil. Taken unaware, those caught had little chance; quite a feat to fool _wolves_ , but they masked their scent. Magic. Such _noble_ hunters, using _sorcery_ to track their prey. I lost seven xvarts and three wolves that day. My pack… and for what? They were gathering nuts and berries; they weren't even armed for war. Did that stop the humans?

War it was.

We pursued those bastards back to their pass, and the gnolls made short work of them. Their aim has definitely improved.

I remember her terror; she was the last.

"Why?" she demanded, arrogant even now; desperation changed nothing. "You kill me over mere _beasts_?"

"They were my friends."

The xvarts' swords drove deeply, and I let the gnolls have the others. The survivors fed well that night.

This will _not_ happen again.


	54. Best Laid Plans, part 11

Despite the snow, Kagain sends word; it seems that further north, it is mild. Nashkel is snowed in, but they keep the roads clear. Caravans pass in and out of the town daily, and many loses are being recouped. Indeed, it seems the economy is thriving; demand outstrips supply, and those able to peddle iron sell for outrageous prices. Still, the cost is dropping as more and more is unloaded; many wonder how long the mines can sustain such intensive plundering, and with ore going for such a high rate, many prospectors have flooded the mine, eager for the wage. It seems all are screened upon leaving and entering, stripped bare, according to some gossip, and guards posted around the clock. For the first time in history, iron ore is worth more than gold.

In any event, with the last surviving bandits in hiding, it seems the crisis is over. Those that do remain are hung publicly, or scalped, and the bounty hunters are growing fat from the pickings. With their prey run to ground, their numbers are thinning, and though the gnolls have dispatched a few who stray too close, we have not seen or heard of any for at least a tenday.

The village goes from strength to strength, even in these harsh winter months. The xvarts look forward to celebrating spring's arrival, and I begin to understand how important the seasons are. The shaman works tirelessly for his people, and I wonder how I ever lacked respect for him or his kin.

The tragedy of the xvart riders is still fresh in everyone's minds, and even the sirines' seem saddened. Their lament brought tears to the eyes of all, and the gnolls howled with the wolves. It echoed through the mountains, and it would not surprise me if distant Nashkel heard it.

We are recovering, however; we lost two of the wounded, one being a wolf, but the rest have recovered in body, if not spirit. Fortunately, there are other bands of riders, but that does not make the loss of this one any less painful; they are less than half their number, but come spring, I intend to restore them.

I hope that other packs will join us, and I have been scouring the night, walking through many dreams in search of others. I have located one, but they are wary. It will be a challenge, as they inhabit the other side of the range, but make their dwelling high up, far from Amn's influence. If there are other, closer packs, I have yet to find them, but I persist. Even if there are not, I hope my pack will birth many puppies; when the shaman left, he seemed to think it would be a good year. With such a steady supply of meat, there is no reason that any should fail to reach maturity, though we expect to lose some to accidents, hunters and war. It is my aim to have five bands of twelve, two riders per wolf. It may even be possible to fit three xvarts onto a wolf; they are certainly small enough!

It has come to my attention that friendly rivalry has broken out between the gnolls and the fort-dwelling xvarts; not to be outdone, the xvarts have taken up fishing, and now practice daily with nets. Some of the more enterprising riders have taken to charging up the river to scare the fish, then flinging their nets at the herded fish. At the same time, another hefts a spear and casts it like a javelin. My thought is to place a swordsman – swords-xvart? – as the third, and ferry warriors to and fro on the battlefield. My other thought is to place archers on the wolves; each band would be made up of lancers and net-throwers, and bowmen, perhaps armed with a sword. If the xvarts seem agreeable, we shall try this out come spring.

The ball games take the edge off the pack's restlessness, and prove an increasing part of daily life; it has developed into a set of fixed team battling it out with one another. There is never one overall victor for very long; sooner or later, another takes their place, and they in turn are thrown down. The rivalry increases, and the teams are formed from the various warbands, though the xvarts and gnolls mix quite readily. It seems that while the xvarts are more naturally inclined towards teamwork, gnolls value individual prowess; there is strength in both approaches, and for each to learn the value of the other…

The first time a gnoll acknowledged a xvart and offered his respect, I thought I'd seen it all. Then the xvart honoured the gnoll for showing respect; after that, it became the custom to end the game with. They carry one another and leave to feast; it takes a score of xvarts to cart a single gnoll, but cart them they do! Equally, one gnoll can sit seven or eight xvarts, at a stretch, on his back and shoulders, and the wolves run circles around both. As always, the sirines show disinterest, but I have long since given up on trying to get _them_ to join in. I had the misfortune of being shrieked at when I suggested that perhaps they could sing for the victory march. I understand now how foolish that thought was, and I have assured all sirines – including my four; _especially_ my four – that such a thing will not be asked again.


	55. Best Laid Plans, part 12

I have learnt that my sister and her companions are now hunted by the Flaming Fist. I cannot believe it, but the bounty posters I clutch in my hands is proof of that. If it were just one notice… but it is not. There are several, all detailing the names and faces of her band. They are accused of murder of the darkest kind: not only has Reiltar Anchev been assassinated in Candlekeep's sacred halls, a place that has not seen blood since before its founding. The occasional bandit or gibberling doesn't count; murder is something else. More, they have been accused of kidnapping Eltan, one of Baldur's Gates reigning Dukes and the man responsible for the Flaming Fist. They are also wanted for the death of Scar, the Fist's second in command.

Worse, it is said that Entar Silvershield, one of the four dukes, _is_ slain; and Amn was behind the murder. The poster in my hand claims that my _sister_ is an Amnish agent; lies and deceit. Who gains from her demise? They say there will be vengeance against Amn – I cannot believe it. This – this _madness_ is beyond absurd; have the people of Beregost forgot who rid them of the bandits? Bandits that plagued them for months? Have the Flaming Fist forgotten who aided them in ridding this scourge? Surely, my sister must have _some_ friends?

Kagain informs me that the merchant cartels are in disarray, that even the Iron Throne has fallen under some dark spell since Reiltar's demise; the caravans have just _stopped_. Not a tenday ago, there was a steady stream from Nashkel to Beregost, Beregost to the 'Gate; now the great city is once again sealed. No one has any answers; rumours are rife.

Amidst all this, there are persistent mutterings of a cover up in Cloakwood; that the necromancer in charge was a man named Davaeorn, and had ties to the Iron Throne. Amongst this are further whispers that the bandits were backed by mercenaries _hired_ by the Iron Throne. To what end is unknown, but the theories range from plundering and scaring the market, to sowing fear for political gain. This seems unlikely, yet Sarevok, using his father's murder, has made a bid for the vacant ducal seat.

The city is in chaos, and news is unreliable at best. What is going on there?

I feel some darker force behind all this. The skull has fallen still, as if its gaze was turned to the north, to the 'Gate; now it does not even mock. I sense something afoot, something in my blood. I feel as if I should be there; that my sister's survival cries out for it. I know without doubt, that there is another, one of us, within that city. Everything points towards Sarevok; even my dreams are still. It is as the whole world hangs, hovering on a single breath. The very gods seem to be waiting, watching; I cannot say how I know, but the coming storm is here. There will be death, and only one of Murder's sons shall leave the city alive; despite my hatred for the gods that allowed our birth, I pray it will be Murder's daughter that survives.

Where they are now is anyone's guess. Some claim they are hiding out in the city, waiting to assassinate the rest of the Grand Dukes, but to what aim? No, something beyond the mortal world lurks, yet the winter hinders us. But for the snow, I could muster my followers and march on the great city. To do so would invite despair and ruin, but I cannot bear the wait any long. These half mangled reports reach me, and the news is late. To do nothing… or risk everything, risk being the spark that sets this land ablaze. Any force marching on the 'Gate will provoke swift reprisal, and my numbers are not enough to take and hold the city; raid it, perhaps, raze it… maybe. But their walls are thick, tall, and are surrounded by water on three sides. It would be suicide. Once… I might have, but not now. Never now.

Unless I sail up the coast, braving the stormy seas, with but a handful of my best, most trusted, my sister… is on her own.

I should have gone after her the first time I saw her, here at the fortress. Knowing there is no way back, I still… consider this madness. We have ships, a few, small ones, and crew the sirines have taken… xvarts, wolves and gnolls to fill the holds in place of cargo… or just myself and my four… I will make preparations. I never should have let her go.


	56. Best Laid Plans, part 13

The gods are hateful beings. I _cannot_ attempt sail; the seas are too rough, and dash all that try her against the rocks. A merchant vessel went by; we watched as it was dashed to pieces. Further north, towards Candlekeep, lightning splits the sky; the waves, even here, are huge. They are as high as any I've seen; midwinter is the worst, and this year the wind is unrelenting. _Nothing_ gets past, nothing.

The drifts have been blown deeper; the southern crossing is flooded. I left it too late; I cannot pass. The winds are too much, or I would have the gnolls construct a bridge. I am trapped, as if to be contained; not permitted to interfere with the meeting. This cannot be coincidence.

Damn all gods. Damn them.


	57. Best Laid Plans, part 14

It's… over.

Nothing. Nothing for two months, and then, just like that, the snow melts. It isn't… right. It isn't fair. I should have been there. Amn's armies will march up through Nashkel, and somewhere between there and Beregost, the two sides will meet. There's nothing I can do. If only I had acted sooner, before the southern crossing was blocked… the deluge has not yet receded.

I have failed.

The land has lost… the skull has won.

I took too long. I can feel it; the night it happened, the world released its breath. I felt it, the surge; the rush as it passed through this plane. The release of power – our sire's essence. My blood pounded, in tune; for the briefest moment I felt them, _all_ of them. My… siblings. I saw the statues; so many statues. Ringed in… the hundreds. Each one holding a mortal avatar, a… shade of the father. In that flash, I saw my own. My sister's. I was pulled back, through the dream; I heard the shatter. Death. One of us has fallen. Not just any, but a mighty Spawn – my own… taint stirs, pulsing with the power. I am stronger for that death. It is… bought by blood.

The gnolls will be birthing soon; my limping champion has performed admirably. His brood will number dozens, his harem of she-gnolls, each bearing two to three cubs each. The xvarts will also be seeing new life, as will the wolves. Something has changed; the pack feels it, but they do not understand it. This should be a time of hope, of joy. They have survived the winter, and await the long summer months. They are ready to begin sowing the fields; the mountain of dung has grown to epic proportions; even the wolves contribute to it, and all are ready to pitch in and spread the muck. They see it as life-giving.

I am the only one without hope, without joy. A part of me died that night. There has been no word from Kagain; I do not expect there to be. He will have fled the coming wrath, as will all who dwell in Nashkel and Beregost. With armies come soldiers, and with those come atrocities; even the paladins will be unable to contain them. After so long, they will be aching for a fight.

I cannot stop blaming myself. This should never have happened; I should have died on the rocks a year ago. I… failed her.


	58. Epilogue

Epilogue

 _And they all lived happily ever after, in a magical fairy kingdom, where no flying elves and their whinging could ever bother them; pink unicorns frolicked under rainbows, and every day the sun shone bright and the only tears were happy 'cause we saved the day._

Heya, it's me, Imoen!

You shouldn't leave your journal lying around. It's not as if I _wanted_ to steal – borrow – it. But really, you should get a better lock. Not that any lock could stop me. I'll give it back. Honest. You say the sweetest things, always worryin' an' gripin'. Especially at the end. Not that it _is_ the end. There's always more. But com'on, me? Lose? The brilliant, yet beautiful, and deadly mage-thief of Candlekeep?

Sarevok's just a big nancy boy, always talkin' so big, an' boomy. We laughed so hard when we saw his armour; he covered it in spikes an' painted it all black and 'scary'. Ooooo. I've faced kobolds more terrifying than him!

Let me tell you a real story, of what really happened.

See, there was this young, talented girl, who had to flee from her home with her foster father one night…

Hey, what's that sound – I wonder who's there; I'll be back in just a mi–

…

End of Part 1


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